


Your Humble Narrator

by Lykegenia



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Drabble Collection, Multi, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2019-10-04 22:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 15,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17313161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lykegenia/pseuds/Lykegenia
Summary: A place to put all the drabbles, prompts, and other odds and ends of Dragon Age fic that don't quite fit anywhere else. Pairings and content warnings will be listed by chapter to avoid mistagging. Mostly Cullen x Maighread Trevelyan and Alistair x Rosslyn Cousland, with guest appearances by Melissa Hawke and others.





	1. Imagine

**Author's Note:**

> I: an exploration of the multiple DA:O origins, who definitely DIDN'T die when Duncan failed to recruit them.

Imagine Brosca, cursing, covered in filth, with only their snarl and the rusty sword they took from a darkspawn corpse, lost in the dark but still alive and savvy enough and determined to _survive_ , to spite all those lordly, noble nug turds who thought it a disgrace that a mere Duster could win their stupid Proving. Imagine them seeing a light in the distance, a little flicker of flame, shadows dancing against the blighted cave wall…

Imagine Aeducan as they contemplate vengeance, honour, shame, the fact that none of it matters now, as they sit by the light of their fire and sharpen the heirloom sword that is now their only possession. When a creature comes stumbling out of the black end of the tunnel it springs to their hand, but it’s only another dwarf, casteless but smart enough to know you fight darkspawn with your mouth closed, wary but willing to hold off an immediate attack. Imagine the two of them, with the map slipped to Aeducan in secret on Gorim’s last visit and Brosca’s unparalleled stone sense, finding their way to the surface, the light after so much darkness, sharing a look as they crane their heads back to take in the impossible breadth of the sky.

Imagine Surana, sweet, sheltered, a gifted healer still reeling from their Harrowing, thrust into the jaws of war at Ostagar. There, men die bloody, screaming, eyes going milky even before their last shuddering breath, and there is worse to come. When the horde surges over the ground, and the line breaks, and the reinforcements don’t come, imagine that Surana flees into the Wilds, fire bursting from their fingertips, guided by nothing but primal instinct and terror, until at last, exhausted, they find themselves stumbling into a camp looming with tattooed faces and bristling with arrows.

Imagine Mahariel, their last energy spent staggering back to the aravels, memory a blank except for Tamlen – Tamlen, so brave as he told them to run and stayed behind, lost to the mirror – knowing with certainty the song will consume them if the wounds do not. And then into the nightmare comes a healer, an elf with a face unmarked by vallaslin who learned herb lore from the kennel master, and magic from the greatest minds in Thedas. Imagine the tears of relief as the song fades, as the aches like a raptor’s claws slowly loosen their grip in a glow of green light. Imagine, the templars might come, one day, but if and when they do, they’ll face all of Clan Sabrae, not just its newest member.

Imagine Tabris, awaiting death in a dark cell and glad the guards are too scared or too well disciplined to try for any extra sport before the execution. Their only regret is that Vaughan took too short a time to die. The brief bubble of his blood is still not enough to cool the fury they feel at the injustices done to the elves. Their fist clenches. If only they had done more. Imagine a commotion outside the dungeon, sounds of fighting, shouting, and then nothing. The lock clicks open. When Tabris finally plucks up the courage to move, they find nothing but an empty corridor, a line of dead men, and a note tied to the key: _Friends know what you did. Follow left and down the steps – and don’t worry, the smell of sewer water doesn’t last as long as corpse rot. There’s a future that way. xx RJ._ Imagine months later, Kirkwall, the sooty, crusted taproom of the Hanged Man. Three human lordlings, drunk on more than ale, decide to find some fun in the alienage, where the Guard don’t care to go. As they guffaw and stagger towards the door, another figure slips out behind, hands already twitching to dagger hilts, a sour smile beneath a shadowed hood.

Imagine Amell, who always has their nose in a book, their ear to the ground, knowing something is coming, something that will change the shape of the Circle. They can’t go to the templars – there’s one who might listen, but not in time to act. So they turn to Anders instead, that infamous escapee locked in the crypt, alone with the rats and the demons. Amell will get him out, if he helps them to get away. And what to do once there’s solid ground beneath their feet? There’s more than one war battering Ferelden, after all, and though Anders insists nobody can be trusted, it’s never long before he ends up back in the Circle. Imagine Amell heads north, perhaps with some dim idea of seeking out family on the other side of the Waking Sea, only to find life in the Circle did very little to prepare for survival outside it. They’re caught one chilly morning, stealing food from a cart marked with the sigil of the Bear, and with magic or not there’s too many armed and angry men to take care of all at once. Then the ground begins to shake and the night explodes with cavalry. Blood spurts, soldiers scream, and when it’s over and all the Arl’s men have gone tumbling down, they catch sight of a figure standing in front of the flames. A figure embossed with the sign of the Laurels.

Imagine Cousland, then, who cannot get the stench of smoke out of their hair or the gore off their hands. Imagine how every beat of their heart is a reminder of the once proud blood that seeped beneath the castle floor. They run hot with vengeance, cold with guilt, their last and only thought to see justice done upon the architect of their family’s destruction. And so the resistance grows, rallying behind the only figurehead left in Ferelden who can match the usurper regent and his dog, the Cousland name against a Hero’s reputation, and slowly Loghain’s woven thread unspools. And imagine one day, fresh from battle, they meet a band of warriors on the road, two Grey Wardens and sundry others, heading for the curse of Soldier’s Peak. There were no Laurels at Ostagar, they’re told. Fergus never made it. Still, they share what they can, with the knowledge that they all must fight this war in their own ways, but not alone. Loghain will pay. Howe will pay. And until then, Cousland will do their duty.


	2. You're Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> II: Prompt: _You're alive._
> 
> I have no memory of getting this prompt, or posting it, but it was in my prompt folder, so I must have had a plan for it at some point. Some Cullen x Maighread morning fluff, set just after Corypheus is defeated.

Warm morning against silk sheets, a warmer body nestled deep in the pillows, skin eggshell soft, the trilling of birdsong through the open lattices. Cullen allows a small smile to curl the edge of his mouth as he drifts, half-asleep and content to listen to the steady, slow breaths of his lover sleeping in his arms. His eyes don’t need to open as he eases closer, seeking the smooth curve of her ribcage with the tips of his fingers as he bends forward to place a blind kiss on the point of her shoulder. The smell of Maighread’s hair, subtle but enveloping, lures him back towards sleep. It lifts a weight from his mind like a cloud from the sun, and for a moment the brilliance of it is unbearable in its loveliness.

_She’s alive._

Then she shifts away from him, mumbling as she wakes, and his arms tighten impulsively around her waist, not restrictive, but enough to let her know he’s awake too.

“Stay here,” he rumbles, smoothing one palm down over her lower back.

The wriggling stops, he can hear her smile as he kisses her shoulder again. “If you insist.”

She snuggles back against him, spine pressed into the net of wiry curls that covers his chest, and they doze for a while, sometimes reaching to trace fingers along skin, feet tangled, before fading back to lie sated in the comfort of shared warmth in a shared bed. Who knows how much time passes.

“What are you thinking about?” Maighread asks eventually.

“The breach is gone, and we’re still here,” he murmurs, hand expert in its dance along her side. “The woman I love is in my arms, untouched, and nobody’s bothered us yet.”

She shrinks a little, and before Cullen can ask what’s wrong, she’s untangled her left hand from the bedclothes and holds it palm up to face them. The anchor sits innocuous in the middle of it, with only the tiniest emerald flashes that twinge impossibly deep in her flesh to show its origins.

“There’s still this,” she says, and the words are bitter.

He reaches over, momentarily pressing her body deep into the mattress as he laces their fingers together, covering the mark with his own calloused, scarred fingers, bringing warmth to her perpetually cold hand. He tugs lightly, inviting her to roll over and face him.

“Maybe now that the Breach is gone, it’ll fade,” he suggests.

“Maybe…”

“I meant what I said before, you know,” he tells her, recognising the downward slant of her thoughts in the crease between her brows, the way she won’t meet his eyes. “Just because everything is over, I don’t want this to end.” He brushes a corkscrew of bronze-dark hair away from her cheek. “Have you ever thought about the future?”

“Not really.” It’s a wry smile she gives him. “In the Circle, no one had a future if they could help it, and then I was an apostate, and the only plans I made involved what I would do if the templars caught up with me. And then I fell out of the Fade and everyone decided I was a demigod destined to defeat an ancient evil.”

“You did defeat it,” he reminds her gently. The warmth is there again, threatening to overflow his chest and burn him alive from the inside out with happiness that she survived Corypheus. He tempers the feeling, running his fingertips long her skin to pull her closer, and when she accepts the invitation and leans her head back with the smug little smirk that belongs to him alone, he finds it more than easy to lose himself in the satin of her lips, the way her fingers tangle into his hair.

“Do _you_ ever think about the future?” she asks when they ease apart.

“I never had a future I wanted to think about,” he replies. “Not until I met you.”

“And now?” she finds the softest curls at the nape if his neck, raising shivers as she plays with them. “What do you want to do with your life?”

Cullen frowns. “I… don’t know, exactly. Maybe before I make any permanent plans I should visit Mia and the others. I’ve never been to South Reach.”

“They’d like that.”

“And they’ll love you.”

Maighread’s fingers still. “Me?”

“You don’t think I’d leave you behind, do you?” he asks, quiet exasperation bleeding through as he plucks at her hand so he can lay small kisses against her knuckles. They’ve come a long way through their doubts, but of course they still linger, now that they stand on the precipice of a new beginning, not knowing what life will throw at them next.

“I didn’t want to assume…” comes the mumbling reply, but before she can finish he takes the words in another kiss, just as languid as the first, with maybe a touch more heat that coaxes a mewl from deep in her throat.

“Maighread,” he breathes, sending his lips to ghost over her cheek, her nose, the tiny frown wrinkling between her brows. “Listen to me. Any future I imagine for myself, first and foremost I imagine you there with me, as long as you’ll have me.” The entire length of their bodies is pressed together now, their combined heat bordering uncomfortable under the morning sunlight. “I love you.”

“Sometimes I still can’t believe it,” she whispers. “Everything.”

“Believe it.”

Her finger meanders a trail down the tendons of his neck, over his chest, driving the last torpor of sleep from his blood. “Can we stay here today?”

“All day?” he chuckles, imagining the look Josephine will pointedly _not_ give them for making themselves scarce.

Maighread pouts. “I’m thinking of the future, but I haven’t done it before so I have to start small. So,” she repeats, winding her arms around his neck so she’s stretched out gloriously against him. “Can we stay here today?”

“Won’t you get bored?” he asks airily. One broad hand has already dipped to draw her thigh up over his hip, the sweetness only inviting further friction.

“I’m sure you’ll think of some way to entertain me.”

He snorts, accepting the lead of her hands, the injunction of her kisses to settle over her, the blankets slipping from his back to expose a bite of mountain air against his spine as he props his weight against one elbow, the better to brush the other as he wills along the ticklish skin of her ribs. _She’s alive. She’s alive and there’s a future for us both._

“My dear,” he purrs, “I’m sure I can try.”


	3. Ave Atque Vale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> II: Prompt: _Ave atque vale (hail and farewell)_
> 
> A moment of closure for Alistair and Rosslyn.

The King and Queen of Ferelden stood at the centre of the crossroads that led four ways: north, along the coastlands; east, towards Amaranthine and the capital in Denerim; south, where the Imperial Highway skirted the pristine shores of Lake Calenhad; and west, over a small rise and down into the city of Highever, which still bore the scars of Howe’s greed. They did not speak, only stood with heads bowed in shared privacy, their hands blistered and bloody from raising the cairn that now stood like a spearpoint against the sky.

For Rosslyn, whose last memory of her home had been a hunted chase through the darkness, smoke burning in her lungs and tears blurring in her eyes, the silence was one of respect for her husband’s grief, rather than grief shared. Duncan had plucked her from the midst of her family’s massacre before her father’s blood had even dried on her hands, and scolded her like a child when she spoke of vengeance over an oath she had never agreed to take. Resentment for that had festered, even as she rallied the country around her and rose to stop the Blight that would have consumed them all, and even now, more than two years on, she could not forgive such a betrayal.

She reached the small distance and slipped her hands into Alistair’s.

His touch closed around hers like roots around a stone. When she glanced to him, she was unsurprised to find tears wending shining tracks down his face. His shoulders were thrown back, meant to carry armour and now too the mantle of kingship, but his head tipped forward, and his eyes fixed at the foot of the cairn with the glazed stillness of one who sees nothing at all. For him, the old Warden-Commander had been much more, a mentor and a friend sorely needed by the boy who had only ever known dismissal and neglect. She squeezed his hand harder.

On her other side, her brother Fergus stood in the new, fur-trimmed blue cloak that marked his status. He met her eyes when she looked at him, but offered no other sign of recognition. It was his suggestion to build the cairn at the crossroads, where it and the marker placed beneath would be seen by all passersby, to make sure Duncan’s name and deeds would last as long as the stone allowed. Officially, as Teyrn of Highever, he was playing host to the royal couple’s progress across the country, and was nothing more than an observer here. And yet he too was drawn into this confidence while the servants stood at a distance with the horses, because without Duncan’s aid he might have been the only Cousland left in a castle full of echoes. Rosslyn knew he still carried guilt for that night, for being too far away, for not realising the trap and leaving his wife and child to die.

She turned back to Alistair, swallowed. When she leaned closer and placed her head on his shoulder, his cheek fell against her hair, brushed with a kiss to her forehead.

“Thank you,” he managed, “for helping me.”

She let go his hand and slid her arm around his waist, grateful when he did the same. “He was a good man,” she offered, though when her vision swam and stung behind her eyelids, the tears were for other ghosts, the ones _she_ had left behind.


	4. Blanket Fort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IV: Prompt: _Building a blanket fort_
> 
> Alistair x Rosslyn, modern AU fluff. In which Alistair is a perfect boyfriend.
> 
> CW: menstruation

“You’re not dressed…”

Rosslyn stood in the doorway of her small apartment, shifting her weight from one foot to the other as she pulled the loose ends of her dressing gown tighter over her pyjamas. “No, uh…”

But Alistair had already seen the tight lines around her eyes, the faint grimace at the corner of her mouth. “Are you alright?”

“Cramps.” She shrugged. “They’ve been bad all day, and just…” She trailed off, giving him an apologetic look. “I don’t think I’m up for movie night tonight.”

“Is there anything you need?” He took a hesitant step towards her, instinctively reaching out to offer comfort. “Anything I can get you?”

“I’m well provisioned,” she replied with a wry smile. “If you wouldn’t mind staying, we could make it a couch potato movie night? Though I’ll warn you now I probably won’t be very good company.”

Accepting her invitation, he stepped over the threshold and caught her chin in a gentle, calloused hand. “You’re always good company,” he told her with a quick kiss to her forehead. “Besides, it’ll be much easier to cuddle here than it would be in a crowded cinema with people giving us dirty looks.”

“They wouldn’t do that if _someone_ didn’t talk during the trailers.”

“I can’t help it if I have Opinions,” he teased, letting himself be guided down so she could press a proper greeting to his lips. When her arms smoothed down around his waist he leaned into the embrace, lending her his warmth through the unsteadiness he could feel in her limbs. The painkillers must not have kicked in yet.

“Go and pick a movie, O Judgemental One,” she murmured into his neck as she finally pulled away. I’ll get the snacks.”

He squeezed her hand. “Sounds good.”

She had barely opened the first of her cupboards to look for popcorn when Alistair poked his head around the door.

“How long are you going to be in here?”

Rosslyn chuckled. “You can’t be _that_ hungry.”

“Nooooo,” he chided, hand on heart as if she’d dealt him a mortal blow. “I had an idea. For a thing – surprise. Surprise thing. But it’s going to take a bit of time so, uh, no rush, alright?”

“A surprise?” she checked.

“No peeking!”

Before she could even open her mouth to protest, his head disappeared from view and she was left nonplussed in the middle of her kitchen while various faint sounds of banging and falling objects came to her through the wall. Part of her wanted to follow him, to see exactly what her boyfriend was up to, but she stayed the impulse. There had been that glint in his eye, and the grin he only got when he was excited and wanting to share a new discovery – like the little Anitvan restaurant out of the market district or the fledgling that he’d manage to catch when it had flown in through his window – and it made her stomach flutter just a little bit, and forget the gnawing pain in her abdomen.

“You’d better not be destroying my stuff.”

“Have faith, woman!” he laughed from her living room.

With an indulgent roll of her eyes, she turned her attention back to the cupboard that contained the unopened box of microwave popcorn Cassandra had given her when she moved in.

The popcorn was in a bowl, with a bag of cheese puffs and a selection box of chocolates on the side, when Alistair emerged.

“Finished!” he declared proudly. “Would you like to see?”

“You’re in pyjamas.” She didn’t realise he even kept a set of sleep clothes at her apartment, having proved the first few times he stayed over that night-time attire only got in the way.

He grinned at her. “Of course. Proper dress code should be observed on such occasions.”

“ _What_ occasion?”

He beamed wider and dropped into a low bow like an old-fashioned knight of the court, inviting her through the doorway with avid eyes to watch her reaction.

She stopped, stunned into silence at the transformation of the space. Here and there, underneath it all, she recognised elements of furniture or decoration – the throw she used to keep her feet warm when the heating broke, the clothes airier for when rain lashed against her balcony, the spare sheet from her linen cupboard held on with the bulldog clips Zevran had stolen for her in a fit of spite from Anora’s office. Altogether, however, they formed a ramshackle tent with elegant lines that reminded Rosslyn of the ones she had seen in pictures of Rivaini nomads, though admittedly it lacked the skilled construction of a traditional _beit_.

The entrance was directly in front of her, a spare towel draped between the pillars of two sturdy breakfast stools that let her get a peek at the warm glow of the interior.

“I’ve never, uh, made one of these before, actually,” Alistair said suddenly, to fill the quiet. She turned and found him running a hand through his hair, a faint pink stain growing on his cheeks. “I hope it’s alright?”

She reached for his hand. “It’s perfect.”

“I’ll remember you said that when it inevitably collapses on top of us.”

“Can I go in?”

At a gesture, Rosslyn bent to lift the doorflap and crawled her way inside. Her eyes were drawn everywhere at once. Her TV had been taken down from its perch and now stood in one corner, opposite a pile the contained her duvet, pillows, and what seemed like every spare cushion and blanket he had been able to find. The lamp from her bedside table had been employed to light the space, but because it was directed down at the carpet, it gave the inside of the blanket fort a soft, muted atmosphere that brought a smile to her lips.

“You are quite the architect,” she said as he crawled in after her. “It’s been years since I was in one of these. Fergus and I used to make them all the time – it drove Nan wild.”

“I thought it might help cheer you up.” He leaned in and caught her temple with a kiss. “Now, get snuggled under all those conveniently placed blankets and tell me which movie you want to watch first.”

Chuckling, Rosslyn did as she was told, making sure to fluff up the pillows and arrange the space big enough for two people to lounge comfortably, then wrapped herself in her duvet while Alistair bustled at the other end of the fort, prodding her archaic DVD player into life. When it finally decided to cooperate, he passed her the remote and shuffled over, snatching a corner of the blankets so he could wriggle under and coax her into his lap. When they finally settled, unable to resist being so close, the movie’s first scene was already playing, but it was an old favourite so they didn’t mind. Rosslyn tucked herself up against her boyfriend’s shoulder, pulling his arms around her like an extra layer as she drew her legs in to seal in the heat and drive away the cramps.

Alistair chuckled as she fussed. “Comfortable yet?”

“Just about – shit.”

“What?”

She dropped her head back against his neck with a groan. “The snacks are still in the kitchen.”


	5. First Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> V: Prompt: _First Battle_
> 
> The first time Bryce Cousland sees Eleanor Mac Eanraig in a fight. Needless to say, he's impressed.

Screaming. Flashing steel. An entire existence narrowed to pinpricks of light skittering off the length of his sword, off his enemies’ armour in the instant before it was washed red in their own blood. He was no longer a being of flesh and bone but a twist of energy, his arms alive with patterns practiced since childhood, legs disconnected as they fought to keep him upright against the swoop of the deck in the swell and the gush of crimson that made it slippery.

The Islanders fought like demons. Bryce had been in the crush of an Orlesian charge before, but never had he seen anyone fight with such dexterity. The crew of the _Mistral_ easily ducked under the reach of the Orlesian boarders, stabbing upwards with daggers and axes while their opponents were distracted by the heavier targets presented by his own men. He thought they held their own well enough, considering many of them had never even seen the sea before a fortnight ago.

A feathered plume flounced towards him, an outrageous shade of acid green against the overcast sky, but its owner fell when Bryce kicked in his kneecap, and after a swift downward slash didn’t get up again.

It was in the gap that Bryce saw her. The Seawolf. No longer ice-cold, implacable as basalt, now she was like a lick of flame, her smile fierce and her grey eyes alight as she brought down all those who marked her an easy target by her high voice and the dark, gleaming banner of her hair. Her small compound bow was slung across her shoulders, her hands busy instead with a buckler and a sleek, leaf-shaped blade that cut the very air to rainbows as she slashed at her prey. When she dodged, she leapt upward, swinging into the ropes of her ship she knew beam for beam so she came down like a bolt of lightning to strike out afresh.

The sight was lost to him as a massive sword came swinging into his line of vision. He turned to meet it, found himself face to metal-guarded face with the Orlesian commander. For a tense moment, his world narrowed. The man was big, and seasoned fighting at sea. But the Seawolf was watching. With a roar, Bryce flung his weight behind his blade, pushing up and under so that the commander overbalanced, and in the pitch of the waves, was lifted off his feet to go sprawling on top of the man with the acid green feather in his helmet. Before Bryce could take a step forward, a second shadow pounced.

“That was my kill!” he cried, as a smart red stripe opened across the commander’s neck. The Seawolf looked up, grinned, then flashed forward until her kohl-rimmed eyes were mere inches from his chin. There were flecks of midnight blue in the depths of her irises.

A gurgle from behind. Bryce followed the line of the Seawolf’s arm and found her sword embedded to the hilt in the chest of the man who had been about to kill him. He stared at her. She grinned. Her breath puffed warm against his face, strangely abstract under the mask of drying blood.

“And that, Soldier,” she purred, “was definitely mine.”

And then she spun away, fast enough the ends of her black hair flicked at his face, and the battle sped up again into its final, bitter striations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One day, I'm going to turn this into a proper fic.


	6. Fortuna Est Caeca

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> VI: Prompt: _Fortuna est caeca (Fortune is blind)_
> 
> Angst/hurt/comfort - Melissa Hawke x Merrill. Set after the confrontation with Marethari on Sundermount.

The sisters in the chantry in Lothering used to say Fortune is blind. It was answer they gave to the question of why the Maker allowed suffering, why He in His infinite power gave some people power over others, lifted them up and casted others down seemingly on a whim. It was a rote explanation for why crops failed some years, why giant spiders attacked so close to town, why the tree limb broke when it did and fell on Old Westley as he rested in the shade. Fortune did not see worthiness, it gave no judgement as it smote down king and commoner, elf and human alike, and it was something people could not change. Of course, that was always when Carver – clever little shit that he always was – would ask if Fortune was more powerful than the Maker, if He saw Fortune being cruel and did nothing anyway. Didn’t that make the Maker the crueller of the two?

Hawke turned away from her window, and the twilight view over Hightown. To any of their old neighbours in Ferelden, a glance at her life now would suggest Fortune had been very kind indeed. A life of luxury, fame, and influence where her magic was, if not praised, at least tolerated for the way she had used it to defeat the Arishok. Not even the Knight-Commander could touch her. And yet, the cost of all the success only really proved what the sisters had said all along, that Fortune made no judgments as it swept all before it into balance, giving with one hand and taking away equally, and brutally. And with nothing left to take from her, it had started on those she held closest to her heart.

Merrill sat curled up in the chair by the fire in the same position she had been in since that morning when they had bundled her back from Sundermount. She had barely said a word since closing Marethari’s eyes in the old shrine, when she had knelt and the pool of the keeper’s blood had seeped into her greaves. Now, though, she heard Hawke’s approach and glanced up, scrubbed her eyes and sniffed away the appearance of her grief.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I must look a right mess, and I haven’t been very good company, when you’ve all been so kind, and after – after –”

Her lip trembled, but before she could hide away to muffle her sobs, Hawke closed the space and knelt before her, taking the fine-boned elvhen hands between her own.

“Sweetheart, you have no reason to be sorry.” The words hadn’t worked on her after they had found Leandra, but she had to try. “You did all you could, and I am going to be here as long as you need me – whatever you need me for.”

“But the city needs you –”

“Fuck the city. If it can’t survive without me for a day then it deserves to burn.”

“ _Vhenan_ …”

“What do you need?”

For a moment, Merrill wavered, searching the recesses of her own mind for a reply, one of those positive answers she always had to hand, but then with the unstoppable, inevitable nature of the tide, she slid forward and threw her arms around Hawke’s neck.

“ _Ar ema ma sa’lan, vhenan_ ,” she whispered, fearful. “They won’t ever let me go back.”

Hawke pulled her love close and offered what little shelter she could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The elvhen Merrill speaks roughly translates to "I only have you."


	7. I Dreamt Of You Last Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> VII: Prompt: _I dreamt of you last night_
> 
> Cullen x non-specific mage Inquisitor. Angst, because Cullen has nightmares.

Cullen’s breath fogged the night. His sweat-stiffened sheets tangled around his ankles as he twitched and whimpered against the empty air in his attic chamber.

A long, black claw trailed tenderly down his cheek.

_What shall it be, my pet? So uncooperative… it breaks my heart to see you so._

“Leave me!”

The demon bared sharp fangs at him in what it must have thought of as a smile. It had tried guile, but Cullen’s resolve was stronger than it had been, and its tricks had not worked. He was still trapped in the cage, the screams of his brothers still ringing through his head, but the demon was frustrated.

“This isn’t real.”

_Must we go through this every time? Your dreams belong to me, my dearest one. This is real so long as I say it is._

He winced away from the touch, feather-soft against the top of his head, and brought his hand up before his eyes, forced himself to look, to really _look_ at them.

_Is this a new game to play, sweet thing?_

He ought to have five fingers. Since learning of his nightmares, the Inquisitor had been teaching him how to take control when his dreams turned dark. It didn’t always work, and her knowledge of the Fade was limited, but he was getting better at it. Slowly, deliberately, he counted his fingers. A human hand had five, but he only got to four before he ran out.

“This isn’t real!” he bellowed over the demon’s shriek. The cage vanished, and he lunged for his tormentor, conjuring a sword to his hand with which to strike it down.

His steel met only empty air. The shock of it jolted him awake, breathing heavily with the sunshine pouring in through the hole in his roof, the dream no more than a bad taste in his mouth and the ghost of a headache behind his eyes.

The morning passed in a haze of paperwork. Exhaustion and withdrawal dulled his senses – he had trouble remembering whether the sergeant had come for the duty rosters yet.

Skyhold was empty as he crossed the battlements to the hall, but that was not unusual. The sun was still bright upon the stones, the wind still. He turned from the main door into the garden, and at last found the Inquisitor with her back to him, kneeling as she tended the flowerbeds. He called her name and strode forward into the sunlight again. She stood and brushed the dirt off her breeches.

“Commander –”

His feet tripped as she turned, his whole body turned heavy and cumbersome as lead.

“May I help you with something?”

Vacant eyes, a quiet smile so unlike her alley cat smirk, and Maker, the brand upon her forehead.

“Commander?” the Tranquil asked. “Is there something wrong?”

This time when he wakes, the demon’s cackle echoes in his ears. This time, he pauses to remember his checks, to feel the rough threads of his linens and actually _look_ at himself in the mirror next to his bed. The sky is still dark, not even a blackbird singing. He counts the stars, blinks, counts them again to make sure the number is the same. His room smells of stale sweat, but even with the hole in his roof the walls close in. Unable to quiet his breathing, and knowing there will be no more hope of sleep tonight, he swings himself out of bed and relishes the bite of cold against the balls of his feet as he rummages through his drawers for shirt and breeches to protect his modesty against the chill.

He counts every step of the ladder as he descends, and spends the next few hours hunting down scraps of paperwork he might have missed, but the images the demon showed him hover in his vision. The sight of the Inquisitor so cowed is meant to toy with him. It’s not real. And yet his anger betrays him. He can’t even protect her in his dreams.

Before the sun has fully lit the sky he finds himself striding along the battlements, the brisk exercise enough to shake the frustration from his limbs, and along with it the last of the demon’s lingering influence. There are only a few drowsy guards on the battlements, and they’re used to his unusual hours, so they pay him no mind.

He doesn’t realise his feet are taking him to the courtyard garden until he’s looking down from under the shelter of the colonnade at a cloaked figure bending over the bed of elfroot growing by the well. His heart stutters. He counts his fingers again. Five. Their tips are red from exposure to the cold morning.

The Inquisitor turns at his footsteps, alert as always, though the pinched muscles around her eyes tell him the anchor has been bothering her again.

But there’s no brand on her forehead. Her mobile features, at first glance creased in suspicion, relax into a tired smile when she recognises him, only to fold a second later into concern as she takes in the scruff along his jaw and the haunted, hollow look of his eyes. She steps towards him but barely manages the first syllable of his name before he’s fallen against her neck, one arm pressed against the back of her head and the other around her waist, holding her as tightly as he can. Her smell, her warmth, her breath against his ear. There’s no brand. Her muscles tense at the unexpected strength of his embrace.

“Cullen?”

He collects himself. “I dreamt about you last night.”

It’s all the explanation she needs.


	8. A Kiss By The Campfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> VIII: Prompt: _A kiss by the campfire_
> 
> This is actually part of a double prompt - a kiss by the campfire/ a kiss for no reason at all - which fit together so well I had to write it.
> 
> Alistair x Rosslyn. Pure fluff.

The words have been turning over in Alistair’s head all day. He caught the conversation between his friends as he was coming back from his morning wash in a very cold stream, and he wouldn’t have eavesdropped, but he caught his name and it compelled him to stop, brow furrowed, to listen. He had spent a rather large portion of the last few hours _really_ wishing he hadn’t.

“You must admit, it is endearing, at least.” Leliana.

“‘Tis annoying,” Morrigan retorted, and the roll of her eyes was evident in her voice even from behind the bushes. “The way he moons after her like a lovesick calf – she has far more patience than I for putting up with it.”

Sten grunted. “Must we discuss this? Your obsession with the trivial continues to be irksome.”

“Ah, my dear Sten,” Zevran interjected, “we of Antiva know love is hardly a trivial matter. Unlike these Fereldens, who do nothing about their fancies except grow red in the face and stutter. It’s a wonder this country has a population at all. Wouldn’t you say Alistair? Come out from behind that tree so we may talk about this properly.”

The elf sits across the campfire now, amusing Leliana with an impression of some merchant or other, thoroughly at ease. If not for the sly glances flashing in his direction every now and then, Alistair might assume their conversation of that morning entirely forgotten. But he can feel the expectation from all of them, in various forms, and his palms sweat. When Rosslyn sits next to him, reaches out for his shoulder because even _she_ has detected something wrong, he thinks it might be best just to throw himself on the fire and be done with it.

“Yes,” Zevran said. “That is the exact expression I mean. Alistair, we were just discussing –”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” he snapped. “How I feel – I mean, my private life – it’s private!”

A scoff from Morrigan. “Hardly.”

“As if you would know human feelings if they walked up and sat on you.”

“Regardless, Alistair, Morrigan does have a point.” Leliana offered him a smile. “You can’t just stare at Rosslyn forever.”

“And you have a better idea do you?” he asked, somewhat pettishly.

“Kiss her.”

He should have expected that response, looking back. The problem is just… _kissing Rosslyn_. He was raised to be a gentleman, he can’t just take her chin in his hand and – and –

He’s _thought_ about it, and many other things that are a lot more ungentlemanly, in the dark hours of the night when there’s nothing to distract him and he can’t keep his imagination at bay. But she’s a noble, and probably had all sorts of suitors before she became a Warden, and how can he compare to that? But she’s sitting next to him, close enough for their knees to touch, and Zevran’s challenge rings in his ears.

“You should definitely kiss her.”

“But what if she doesn’t want me to kiss her?”

“Then ‘twill prove a most entertaining diversion.”

“Ignore Morrigan – how about this?” Zevran smiled his best assassin’s smile. “I _dare_ you to do it.”

Daring. Is he daring? Give him a horde of darkspawn, an ogre, a gang of bloodthirsty bandits, and he’ll leap towards them without missing a breath, but a pretty girl – this particular pretty girl – has his heart pounding like he’s just run a league in full armour. He glances down, taking in her relaxed posture, her shirt slightly open at the neck, the way she’s looking at him still with that faintly anxious curiosity because _of course_ he’s been sat there for Maker knows how long and not said anything and now he’s rambling even in his own head.

“I’m fine – absolutely fine,” he manages, and touches her hand to try and reassure her.

It gives him an idea. Zevran, after all, never mentioned _where_ he was supposed to kiss her. Acting on the spark of impulse, he curls his fingers around hers and brushes his thumb over the knuckles as he lifts it to his mouth. Her lips part in confusion, so before she can ask and before he can lose his nerve, he presses a kiss against the back of her palm.

She freezes. Her skin is so soft he doesn’t want to stop. Colour blooms in her cheeks and sound roars in his ears. He realises he’s staring and he carefully sets her fingers back in her lap.

“What – what was that for?” she asks. Smiles.

Elation fizzes through him, equal to his relief that she _didn’t_ slap him and give Morrigan yet more ammunition for her mockery.

“Absolutely no reason at all,” he says, and beams, and slides just that little bit closer to her.


	9. Move Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IX: Prompt: _Move over_
> 
> Fluff, Cullen x Maighread.

The silence was a balm for Cullen. Time with Maighread – time to themselves, uninterrupted by some emergency or other – was so rare that there was nothing he cherished more. And this time, she was gone for weeks, first to the cathedral-like forests of the Emerald Graves, and then south, following the long trail of red lyrium away from rogue dalesmen and giants to the bitter, snowy climes of the Emprise in search of Samson’s mines and the red templars who guarded them. He had met her in the lower courtyard that morning as her party returned, knowing to catch her as she dismounted and stumbled on legs cramped with days of hard travel. He had used it as an excuse to bring her close, to breathe her in and confirm to the incessant, frantic voice that had hounded him every day that she was safe, and whole, and _home_.

“Thank the Maker,” she had muttered against his mantle. “I thought I was never going to be warm again.”

Unable to entirely stifle his chuckle, he had only held her tighter. “If you would like some extra warming later, I would be happy to oblige.”

Now they sat on the west-facing balcony in her quarters, watching the stars and the slow, stately progress of the moons across the sky. They were wrapped side by side in one of the many quilted blankets that layered her bed, with pillows shielding them from the cold stone beneath and heat runes borrowed from Dagna scattered about to stave off the worst of the mountain air. The remains of a hearty Fereldan picnic sat at his elbow, along with a mostly-empty bottle of plum wine Mia had sent him from her home in South Reach. With the heady alcohol humming in his veins and the cool breath of night against his forehead, he let his mind drift, content with the world and the woman who shared his place in it.

Maighread shivered.

Concerned, he disentangled his hand from hers and wrapped it around her shoulder instead, chafing to drive away the chill. “Are you alright?” he asked.

“There’s a draught,” she complained, wrinkling her nose. “Move over, you’re hogging the blanket. Please?” she added hopefully, when his only reaction was a tiny pull at the corner of his mouth.

He had missed her. So much.

“And what if I decide to hold the blanket to ransom?” he teased, with a subtle shift in weight.

She gave him a wry look. “Then it would backfire on you horribly.”

“Oh?”

“My Commander always tells me I shouldn’t negotiate with kidnappers,” she informed him loftily, before tilting her chin in consideration. “Blanketnappers,” she amended, and grinned. “ _Scoundrels_.”

“Scoundrel?” he repeated, his wounded expression betrayed by an irrepressible grin. “My lady is harsh. Tell me, what will you do, if not negotiate?”

“I can think of a few things,” she purred, letting her hand smooth up the inside of his thigh as he leaned down to her mouth. The kiss tasted of summer fruit and the faint salt of her skin, the slide of her fingers to the nape of his neck a familiar tickle he had almost gone mad without in her time away.

When they paused for breath, Cullen hummed, his smile lingering with ghostlike pressure against hers.

“Luckily for you this scoundrel is generous,” he murmured, with one more quick press of his mouth. “Come here.”

His hand fell to her waist as he stretched out his legs and opened the blanket to invite her to move. Grinning, she took his meaning and shuffled forward on her knees before folding herself down again, settled against his chest with his thighs a reassuring weight on either side. The movement was awkward, the new position had shifted the blanket, and for a few moments Maighread fussed with the ends of it to make sure she was tucked in right down to her toes.

“Maker, stop fidgeting, woman,” he huffed as she finally let herself fall into the embrace, against his heart. His arms snaked around her middle, tucking in the edges of the blanket and smiling when her hands came up to rest against his forearms.

“There now, isn’t this better?”

She let her head fall back against his shoulder. “I think it might be.”

A sigh fell from her lips as her body relaxed, her head tilting so she could tuck her forehead against the strong curve of his jaw. _Together_ , the gesture said, _I missed you_. And as they sat together and watched the slow turn of the heavens, he sighed too and let her know with soft touches and softer kisses how glad he was to have her back.


	10. Nothing Is Ever Certain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> X: Prompt: _Nothing is ever certain_
> 
> Alistair x Rosslyn pre-relationship fluff, with some help from Leliana.

Leliana looks up from the mending of her quiver to see Rosslyn pause in her task for the evening – sharpening her sword – her attention otherwise fixed on her fellow warden sprawled on the opposite side of the fire, playing a game of Keepaway with the dog. For a moment, a sort of wistfulness lingers about her mouth, in the soft crease between her eyebrows, but whatever it is, she shakes it away and returns to her work with a sigh. Her renewed industry doesn’t make her any less distracted, though, and the ease with which Leliana sneaks up on her friend is positively criminal.

“Would you like to talk about it?” she asks softly.

The Warden blinks and comes back to herself. “Hm?”

“You’ve been staring,” Leliana tells her, then offers a reassuring smile at the way her friend’s shoulders stiffen. “Oh no, don’t mistake me – I think it’s cute. And you know,” she adds, dropping her voice lower, “he stares at you too, you must have caught him looking.”

“I…” Rosslyn stammers something, her cheeks colouring, eyes flicking to where Alistair is still playing with Cuno. “Sometimes,” she admits. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“So? My offer to talk is here, if you would like.”

Rosslyn smiles, and at first the flush gets deeper as she bites her lip, shaking her head to deny everything, to brush away the flutterings of her heart because it’s her duty to stop the end of the world. But then there’s a bark and a quick laugh, and the expression freezes on her face. When she turns back to Leliana, uncertainty pulls at the corner of her mouth.

“ _En priv_ _é_?” she asks.

“ _Bien sur_ ,” Leliana replies, unsurprised by the noblewoman’s smooth switch to Orleisan. “ _Si tu veux_.” She sits on the sandy earth by her friend, patiently quiet so that Rosslyn can order her thoughts and speak what’s on her mind. It’s clear enough from the way she’s peeking at Alistair from under her eyelashes, but the words are more difficult.

“I like him,” she confesses eventually, still in Orlesian. “I don’t know if it’s because of all we’ve been through, but whenever he’s around, things just don’t seem so dark, you know?” Her smile turns tender, her thumb traces unconscious patterns along the back of the other hand. “He always knows exactly what to say.”

“And he’s rather handsome too, no?” Leliana replies with a wicked hint of a smirk. “That makes things easier.”

Rosslyn opens her mouth to argue, but the outrage dies on her tongue, consumed by the flush on her cheeks as she looks away again, biting her lip to hide a smirk of her own. So, she has been _looking_ as well as looking.

“Why the hesitation?” Leliana ventures.

The Warden’s demeanour changes like the wilting of autumn leaves. “We could die tomorrow,” she says. “Any day, any of us might fall to darkspawn, or bandits, or so many other things, and I can’t…” Her fist clenches in her lap, she tries again. “I don’t want…”

She’s thinking of her family, massacred before her eyes, her home set ablaze, the man responsible a usurper and a traitor laughing because he thinks he got away with it.

“Nothing is ever certain,” Leliana says gently, taking her friend’s hand to ease the tension away. “Yes, we might die tomorrow, but then again, we might not.” She nods to where Alistair is sharing a joke with Zevran. “If there is one thing I have learned it’s that we must seize on whatever happiness we can, wherever we can find it. Having something so precious to hold onto is what makes the horrors easier to bear, and it makes us fight all the harder.”

“Because we fear to lose it.”

She blinks at the barb in Rosslyn’s voice. “You should tell him how you feel, or show him, if the words fail you.”

“But what if –”

“And you should know,” she continues, “that for the past few weeks he’s been sneaking up to each of us in turn to ask for advice – as if we didn’t know exactly what he was up to.”

Rosslyn frowns her confusion. “Advice?”

“About you,” Leliana chuckles. “About how to tell you how he feels. He asked Wynne to ‘imagine she was a woman’. Someone should put the poor boy out of his misery, don’t you think?”

For an instant, Rosslyn seems caught, panicked, trying to work out some excuse or denial that will sound plausible, but the conviction isn’t really there. When she looks back towards the fire again, she catches Alistair glancing away from her, but by the darkening colour spread over his cheeks, he’s realised who they’re talking about. She nods, but whether to confirm her own resolve of acknowledge Leliana’s words is difficult to say.

“ _Merci pour le bavardage_ ,” she says, rising to go. “ _J’y penserai._ ”

She can feel Alistair watching her sidelong as she steps closer to the fire, but she can’t quite muster the courage to look at him when she settles next to him on the mat.

“I was cold over there,” she says, to explain.

“Would this help?”

He’s offering her his blanket. It must be warm, and suffused with his scent that’s a little like pinesmoke and a little like leather and a little like sweat. Her heart beats raw with wounds barely scabbed over when she looks at him, but there’s something else there as well, a new bud growing in defiance of winter frost.

“But then you’ll be cold,” she teases. “And that would be ungallant of me.”

“Perhaps, then…” he tries, and holds out his arm wrapped in the sheet, like the wing of a great bat, “how about you have one corner, and I take the other?”

She can’t help smiling at that, then smiling wider when she nods permission and he scoots closer to fold his arm very, very cautiously around her waist. She could kiss him if she leaned forward just a little bit, but she settles for rearranging the blanket instead. It’s true the future holds uncertainty, but she’s certain that here, in this moment, knowing she can fall is enough.


	11. Sharing A Bed(roll)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> XI: Prompt: _Sharing a bed_
> 
> Alistair x Rosslyn. Good, comforting fluff.

Rain pattered on the outside of Alistair’s tent. There must have been a peal of thunder to pull him from sleep, or some other nefarious thing he felt quite justified in cursing as he blinked scratchy eyes and huddled further down in his bedroll, determined to return to blessed oblivion.

But something breathed in the tent. Something that wasn’t him. He could sense it now, nerves firing, every thought racing along his sinews, waking the warrior instincts that had kept him alive thus far. And there it was, out of the corner of his eye, a dark, amorphous mass in the gloom – a hand reaching out –

“Andraste’s tits!”

“Wait! It’s me!”

He froze at the voice, husky with sleep but familiar, and registered his sword was halfway out of its sheath.

“Rosslyn?” He scrubbed his spare hand down his face to banish the last of his sleep. “What are you doing here?”

“My tent sprang a leak,” she told him ruefully. “Quite a big one. My bedroll is completely soaked.”

He set the sword back in its place by his boots and sat up, peering through the darkness at her. As his eyes got used to the low light, he found her outline, all loose, bedraggled hair and pallid, rain-chilled skin. She was shivering. At any other time he might have scrambled on the knowledge that she was here, in his sleeping space, in nothing but a shirt and loose trousers, but in truth he had never seen her look quite so pathetic, and his need to offer comfort quickly overrode any feeling of embarrassment at the situation.

“Here,” he said, shaking off his blanket to wrap it, still warm with his body heat, around her shoulders. “You’re frozen.”

“It’s cold outside,” she pointed out. The shiver turned the words into a giggle.

“And I bet you were trying to be stubborn and stayed in your tent until you were half-drowned.”

“Maybe a little.”

Tsking good-naturedly, Alistair folded her even further into the blanket, chafing his hands down her back to encourage warmth back into her core. “Where’s Cuno?”

“He’s with Leliana,” she answered. “It was a bit crowded in there with three, and I was worried if I woke Morrigan to ask her –”

“She would have immolated you on the spot on instinct.” He pressed a kiss to Rosslyn’s forehead. “Don’t worry, you can stay here – if you don’t mind being squashed next to my smelly socks?”

She shot him a wry grin through the dark. “You’re too kind.”

Fumbling, Alistair leaned past her, feeling with his fingertips for the tent flap to make sure the toggles were closed against the weather, then shuffled backwards, unusually aware of how tightly his large body filled the space as he lay down. Next to him, Rosslyn unwrapped the blanket from herself – because of course he only had one – and splayed one half over his chest. They settled as best they could, folding into unfamiliar angles to fit against each other. The wet cold of her hair was a shock against his bare arm, but he liked the weight of her head laid over his heart, and the idle way her fingers curled into the loose fabric of his shirt, tense to try and suppress her shivers.

“Here,” he said again, stretching an arm over her back to take her hand between his.

“Thank you,” came the sleepy murmur as he rubbed life back into her fingers. “Mmmm, you’re so warm.”

He flushed, heat all over at the way she snuggled deeper into his embrace, so trusting and so vulnerable, so content her breathing was already deepening into proper slumber.

 _Maybe bad weather isn’t so bad after all,_ he thought, and sighed as let himself drift after her into the Fade.

 


	12. Little Spoon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> XII: No prompt this time, just a musing on Cullen and intimacy.

Take a pause to imagine Cullen.

Cullen, the Commander, the man long beset by fear and doubt, unwavering in the face of the end of the world, untrusting and ill-fated, touch-starved, learning from the Inquisitor the marvel of being the little spoon.

Linking his fingers with his love’s to draw her arms tighter around his body, over his heart, a cocoon around his most vulnerable places.

The smile on his lips even in sleep when he feels the tickle of hair or the brush of lips against his back.

Reluctance when he wakes first, needing to relieve himself, and tries not to wake the slumbering figure next to him as he extricates himself from limbs that seem to have wrapped all around him all at once.

Joy when he wakes second, and rolls over, and knows even before he opens his eyes that she will still be there, protecting, trusting, the feel of her hands a reassurance, a gift he never imagined he could have.

 


	13. This Just Might Be The Sketchiest Thing I've Ever Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> XIII: Prompt: _This might just be the sketchiest thing I've ever done_
> 
> Hawke & Isabela take in some culture.

“This just might be the sketchiest thing I’ve ever done.”

Isabela peered down from the overbearing windowsill she had chosen as a breathing spot and pouted. “Hawke, sweetheart, you kill people for money,” she said.

Hawke gave her a Look. “Only because I seem to be rather gifted at it.” The wind was picking up, whuffling around the pair as if it could sense their trespass and wanted them gone. Likewise, the stone of the venerable building they clung to was tricky about its handholds, and every so often a hand or foot slipped when a perfectly dry shadowed recess turned out to be treacherous with wet moss.

“I can’t see why we couldn’t have just gone in the front door like everyone else. Formal attire isn’t the easiest thing to sneak around in, you know.” There were already a large number of snagged threads and pulled seams – and the clothes brand new – and for a moment as they sat on the windowsill next to Isabela, Hawke puzzled over how it was such a dainty problem became such a pressing concern. If only their Lothering neighbours could see them now!

You could have just ignored the dress code and gone in everyday stuff – sans those ridiculous pauldrons, of course,” Isabela was saying. Hawke gave her another Look and she sighed, defeated. “If we went in the front door, they’d overcharge us for stale _hors d’oeuvres_ and weak beer the manager probably stretches further by pissing in it. I know you have money now, but no fortune is worth _that_.”

“Fair point.”

Isabela grinned and scampered over to the next climbing challenge, far more comfortable on the narrow ledge two storeys above the Hightown street than Hawke would ever be. It couldn’t be much further now.

“We still could have gone in and snuck snacks in with us,” came the grumbled suggestion, from the person accustomed to having the last word.

“Which of our friends has been such a boring influence on you?” Isabela demanded in a scandalised tone. “And _where_ in that rather outrageous and flimsy ensemble were you expecting to hide anything worth eating?”

“I’m not going to answer that.”

Isabela returned Hawke’s smirk. “Pity.”

After that they didn’t talk much, because the path got narrower and there were guards posted below. Eventually, Isabela – who seemed to have done this sort of thing before – led the way to a door that opened onto the building’s roof. Muffled sounds of the evening’s entertainment could be heard rising from below as they hurried down the steps and into the auditorium. The play was nearing the end of its season but had already become unfashionable, so there were plenty of empty seats for the picking. Isabela, true to her nature, chose two right at the front of the upper circle, and left a wave of silently disgruntled patrons in her wake, none of whom were quite willing to argue with the two lethal-looking daggers strapped to her shoulders.

“Isn’t it a great view?” she whispered as Hawke plonked down next to her.

Hawke frowned. This was a play Leandra loved, which meant she had dragged her children to see it half a dozen times already.

“No, not that one, silly,” came the gentle tease. “ _That_ one.”

Hawke looked down. The frown disappeared as her eyebrows shot into the tangle of black hair hanging low on her forehead.

“Is that? No.” A shake of the head. “Surely it’s not – no.” A slow-spreading grin of pure, wicked intention. “How did you find out about this?”

“A little bird told me. Now aren’t you glad you came?”

“Oh yes,” Hawke said, eyes glinting as if Satinalia had come early. “I’m definitely going to have fun after this.”

Below them in the stalls, clearly visible, Carver yawned and stretched in an ill-concealed attempt to put his arm around the shoulders of the petite blonde who was his date for the evening.


	14. The Warden's Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> XIV: The Warden reunites with the King of Ferelden.

The Warden’s return lacks ceremony.

Two years.  _Two years_  she has been gone, from court, from social grace, from the living breath of the sky, and it has been a long road back through mud and murk, along paths that have left her weary in more than just body. When she forces the doors of the great hall, with the guards hovering at her back, the knockers clang in their rivets, wood booms against stone, and she stands there, framed by the light in gore-stained travelling clothes.

The chatter of Ferelden’s nobility falls away.

On the far dais, King Alistair turns, his genial smile frozen on half-formed words. He forgets to breathe. One step, then two, stumbling - he wobbles on disbelieving limbs - but she’s here, past the point of almost all hope he had of seeing her again. 

Straight-backed, head high, she comes to him, grit and steel and the stately determination that let her face down an archdemon and live, each solid plant of her foot a defiance to the blisters and the bruises. She’s here, she made it back, she will never be parted from this soil again.

Nobody quite sees the moment their self-control breaks. Steps become strides become running into each other’s arms. They grip so tight, Alistair lifting her armour and all clean off the ground, her sword still buckled and swinging round to slap the back of her knees as she buries her face into his neck and whispers words for him alone. What care they for the startled disapproval of their onlookers, for courtly propriety? She has been gone so long, and loneliness has gnawed at both of them like ice at a mountain.

_You cut your hair._

_I think I like the beard._

A thumb brushing away tears down a cheek. A palm searching for a heartbeat under layers of cloth. A forehead touch, knowing they will never be lost again.


	15. Where Did You Learn To Fight Like That?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> XV: Prompt: _Where did you learn to fight like that?_
> 
> Cullen & Dorian share a friendly chess match and some witty banter.

Dorian watched opponent’s opening move, the smooth, confident step forward as battle was joined. He tsked. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“Fight?” Cullen blinked at him. His pawn clacked down on the board. “This is chess. A game.”

“ _The_ game,” his friend corrected him. “One’s approach to playing is one’s approach to life.”

Cullen scoffed, watching Dorian smooth his moustache and contemplate his opening. “Those are the words of a man who had an expensive education – I’ve heard them before.”

“You have a rather aggressive style,” Dorian continued, as if there had been no interruption. “Straight to the point, but with an interesting subtlety, which is refreshing.”

“And you like to cheat. Flattery won’t save that knight of yours, you know.”

Dorian glanced up from the board. After the first sally, his bishop was in danger, too, but it was early days yet, and besides, he had just spotted a familiar figure entering the courtyard. Hiding a smirk behind his hand, he moved his knight to take one of Cullen’s pawns, already calculating the next moves of his game.

“How are things progressing with the Inquisitor?”

 _Clack._ “What do you mean?”

“Oh, come now.” Bishop takes pawn. “The lingering looks, the wistful sighs, the sidelong glances whenever you’re in the same room. It’s positively cloying.”

A flush crept across Cullen’s cheeks to the tips of his ears, betraying the stern, almost petulant look he shot across the table. “That’s not – I don’t –” But the bluster faltered, and instead of going to move his queen, his hand went to the back of his neck. “Do I?”

“My dear Commander,” Dorian grinned. “Whoever said I was talking about you?”

The flush, if anything, got deeper. A distracted look appeared in Cullen’s eyes, the hopeful beginnings of a smile curling at the corners of his mouth. _Gotcha_.

“Honestly, though, it’s not as if I’m very surprised,” the altus added, nonchalantly taking another pawn. “For all your both being so direct on the field of battle, I’ve never met two people more determined to dance around one another.” He gave a dramatic roll of his eyes. “It’s enough to make one _dizzy_.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Cullen protested, though rather meekly. The fur mantle he insisted on wearing seemed to fluff up in agitation. “The inquisitor and I are colleagues – friends at best.”

“Yes, and Lake Calenhad is just a large puddle. One day, you will learn I am _always_ right. Self-delusion won’t save your rook, by the way.”

Startled, Cullen glanced down at the board and his scattered, decimated forces. Dorian winked at him, but the battle wasn’t lost yet.

“Gloat all you like,” he said three moves later. “This one’s mine.”

One perfect eyebrow arched. “Are you sassing me, Commander?” He glanced over Cullen’s shoulder, distracted. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Why do I even – Inquisitor!” He hadn’t even heard her approach.

“Leaving are you? Does this mean I win?”

Cheeks flaming, Cullen sat. Dorian smirked.

_Checkmate._


	16. Littera Scripta Manet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> XVI: "Littera Scripta Manet - the written word remains." Prompt introducing Sean Trevelyan, Maighread's brother, who survives in an alternate version of the temple explosion.

“Amatus?”

Adamant had taken its toll on everyone who was there, the ones who fell into the Fade worst of all. Mortals were not supposed to manifest in the spirit world, and yet they had tramped through the ever-shifting murk, through echoes of lost battles and ancient spires following a spirit in the guise of a dead Divine, only to meet something worse than horror at the end of it all. Even Sean, stout warrior and one of the bravest – if reckless – people Dorian had ever met, had shrunk away from the Nightmare.

But it didn’t quite explain his mood. A darker shadow had haunted him since they emerged into the breathing world again, a pain beyond the otherworldly taint and the Wardens’ betrayal that left him hollow-eyed and silent. Then, while the rest of the army wended its way back to the solace of Skyhold, he had asked to come here, to the blasted mountain that once held Andraste’s ashes, alone but for the support his lover could offer.

It didn’t feel like much.

The ruins of the temple stuck out of the ground like rotten teeth. They had hiked up the trail together, having set off at first light from the scout post the Commander had established over the buried remains of Haven, and now they stood in a vast and echoing pit of drifting snow and melted stone. Dorian breathed a warmth spell into his cupped palms and tried to ignore the numbness in his feet. Sean knelt in front of the polished granite slab the Ambassador had erected in memory of those lost, both in the Conclave and afterwards, the ones buried beneath the avalanche, seemingly unaware of the chill the wind cut through their winter clothes.

“She’s not here,” Sean said, his fingertips splayed against the stone.

“Who?”

“My sister,” came the low answer. “She was here but nobody knew. I think – I think she came to find me.”

Dorian frowned. “You never told me you have a sister.”

“She’s – she _was_ – a mage. When they took her to the Circle I vowed to become a templar so I could protect her like a big brother should, but then when Ostwick fell I lost track. I hoped she would be with the mages in Redcliffe.”

“Ah.” That, then, accounted for Dorian’s first memory of the Herald of Andraste. At first, he had thought it pretentious that the man had stopped to speak to everyone he saw in mage robes, like a patron looking to improve his sphere of influence, but then, on looking closer, he had noted the quiet desperation, the renewed disappointment after every sidelong look. A sister. A _mage_ sister. That would explain both the unease and the secrecy.

But he was supposed to be comforting.

“Even if she wasn’t in Redcliffe, it doesn’t mean she was, well, _here_ ,” he tried. “There are half a dozen places in Thedas she could have gone – mage strongholds that have slipped through unnoticed in the chaos.”

Sean didn’t look at him. “I got my memories back, remember? I hoped but…” He shook his head. “She was there that night. Maker, I might have stepped past her body when we –”

The hand on the stone tightened into a fist. Broad shoulders sagged as if broken, and there was silence on the mountain. The light was starting to fade.

“Amatus, I…”

But Sean slipped his dagger from his belt. “I can’t just let her be forgotten.”

Sparks grated against the stone as he dragged the blade across its surface, the silverite biting deep, jagged lines that coalesced into the crooked letters of a name. As he worked, flecks of blood dropped crimson onto the snow from where the dagger’s edge cut through his gloves into his palm, and somehow it was fitting. When the last downward stroke was finished, he leaned back on his heels to survey his work with his mouth pulled in a line too grim to quite be satisfaction, but close enough in such a desolate place. With a quickly mumbled prayer and one final glance at their surroundings, he hauled himself to his feet. Pins and needles shot the length of his legs, but he ignored it.

“Thank you for agreeing to come here with me,” he said to Dorian, though his gaze fixed on their footprints in the snow. “This – it’s – well. At least I know, now.”

Dorian watched as he set off back down the path, his movements jerky like a sleepwalker’s, head bent against the weather. Behind lay the epitaph, the only remains of yet another person caught up in a war that left them as ash in the wind. Sighing, and with a curse against the cold, the mage crouched before the stone with the words of his old tutor ringing in his mind, and channelled his mana into his palm, twisting it into the warding the mortalitasi used on their most sacred monuments:

_Anima precaria volat, littera scripta manet._


	17. Accidentally Witnessed Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> XVII: An accidentally witnessed kiss. Prompt featuring Rosslyn Cousland and Alistair Theirin.

Alistair found Rosslyn in the library, already changed into formal attire, lost among the dusty collection of cracked spines behind the desk. She smiled when she heard him enter, but it was tinged with sadness, the shadow that had weighted her shoulders ever since they rode through Castle Cousland’s gates that morning. 

“Thank goodness,” he said. “I was beginning to think I’d have to get Mhairi to organise a search party.” 

She rolled her eyes indulgently. “This place isn’t that big.” 

“How are you holding up?” 

She turned away and ran her fingers over a fractured marble bust of King Calenhad that was sitting on the desk, distracting herself. “Everything feels so normal here. There’s no reason why it shouldn’t, really, only...” 

“The last time you were here was the night you lost them,” he finished for her. When she nodded, he closed the last small distance between them and pulled her into a hug. 

They had come to Highever as part of the royal progress to introduce Alistair to the people following his coronation at the winter Landsmeet. Eamon was lurking around somewhere, and officially Rosslyn was here as the king’s chancellor, which meant there were very few opportunities for a private moment. They had even been given separate rooms. 

“I’ve missed you,” he told her, and brushed a kiss against her shoulder. 

“So have I,” she agreed. “It’s almost enough to make me miss the Blight.” 

“Well let’s not get too crazy.” 

With a soft chuckle, she leaned back to cup his face, run her thumb along the length of the scar on his cheek. “You know, this is the first moment alone we’ve had all day.” 

“Maybe we shouldn’t,” he sighed as she tilted her mouth up to his. 

“Why not?” 

“Well, I mean –” He scratched the back of his neck. “Would it be... proper? I’m a guest, and your brother’s here, and I wouldn’t want to…” 

“Do you think he’d challenge you to a duel if he knew about us?” she teased. 

Sighing again, he released her and trailed his hands to hers, following the movement with his gaze as he linked their fingers together. “It’s not that. What he lost here, I just keep thinking what it would do to me if anything like that ever happened to you and... I don’t want to... rub his nose in it, I suppose. It’s silly.” 

“No,” she answered, tightening her grip on his fingers. “It’s not. But... you make me happy. He’d understand that – not that it’s his business.” 

Alistair’s frown softened. He leaned closer, slipping his arms around her waist, the quirk of his mouth teasing. “My love, do I make you happy?” 

“You know the answer to that,” she murmured, letting her gaze fall to his lips. “I’m not sure I could do this without you.”

“You could, but I’m glad I can make it easier.”

“You do,” she purred, and dusted an imaginary piece of lint from his collar. “And you know, Fergus isn’t here – in this room, with us. In private.” Every word brought her sidling closer, until she was entirely pressed against the solid wall of his chest, with her lips a ghost against his own.

“You’re incorrigible,” he grumbled, though he didn’t pull away. “I am _trying_ to be a gentleman.”

“You are a gentleman,” she insisted. “You’re _my_ gentleman, and I want you to kiss me.”

He was truly smiling now, every muscle held taut as he drew out the moment, let their breath mingle. “Incorrigible _and_ demanding.”

“And what are you going to do about –”

He cut her off. Her words crumpled into a startled moan, and then a trembled breath as he pressed his advantage and deepened the kiss. Even in the Chantry school, he had never been particularly good at _being_ good, always too willing to be distracted, too ready to question orders that didn’t make sense, and as so often happened with Rosslyn this close, whatever remained of his resolve ignited like kindling. It had been entirely too long since he had kissed her – that had been yesterday, but still. She arched up into his touch, braced on his shoulders to banish whatever last bit of space remained between them, quietly desperate for his touch in the way she only ever became after a battle. Her tongue flicked against his bottom lip and the hand still on her waist curled possessively tighter as she sucked it between her teeth.

His mind was just turning towards the possibility of finding some hapless piece of furniture against which to pin her, when a floorboard creaked behind him.

“You know, if I’d known you two were that hungry, I would have ordered dinner earlier.”

Rosslyn pulled back with a squeak, colour blooming across her face. “Fergus!”

Alistair turned. “Your Lordship, I –” His hands were still in _places_. He let go as if burned and tucked them behind his back. “We were just…”

“Your Majesty,” Fergus interrupted. “Not to be blunt, but you’re aware that’s my sister? My _baby_ sister?”

“Oh don’t you dare,” Rosslyn snapped. “I’m not a child. Don’t treat me like one.”

For a moment the three of them stood, the two siblings glaring like a pair of dogs sizing up for a fight, with Alistair the mutton joint caught between them, until Fergus sagged and huffed a deep sigh through his nose.

“Forgive me. I was surprised, is all. I thought you might have told me about something of this nature, and I have no desire to see you taken advantage of.” This last was directed more to Alistair, with a guarded look he read plainly. The Teyrn of Highever had the same eyes as his sister – a darker shade maybe, with more green, but with an identical steely resolve that wouldn’t baulk at treason if the situation called for it.

“I would never hurt her,” he promised, holding the teyrn’s gaze. “I was lucky to have met her at all, luckier still that she cares for me.” He glanced down as Rosslyn ducked her head against his shoulder and stole one of his hands in her own.

“Fergus,” she said. “Please.”

Her brother swallowed, frowned, tapped his foot against the floor as he looked between the two of them, united, at once sheepish and defiant. When he sighed this time, the sound was one of defeat.

“You’ve grown up,” he remarked, smiling through the sudden sting in his eyes. “I’m glad you found someone in all of this – and a king, no less.”

She smiled. “Well, my taste in men always was better than yours.”

“It would seem so.” He turned his smile on Alistair, and it turned cunning. “Tell me, Your Majesty, while you were on your travels, did my darling ickle sister ever get a chance to tell you about the time she was caught stuffing custard tarts into her skirts to bribe the dogs?”


	18. Kiss on the Knuckles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> XVIII: A kiss on the knuckles. Alistair x Rosslyn prompt that is pure fluff.

The damage could have been much worse. For one thing the brawlers might have been armed, or gotten a lucky swing when they had Alistair pinned three to one against the chimney. For another, the innkeeper might have been far less understanding about the array of knocked tables, shattered tankards, and disrupted wall decorations upset by the confrontation and thrown them all out into the gutter. Luckily for the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden, however, Zevran had spent the evening charming the staff and Sten had won a drinking competition against the town blacksmith, so the bar had been in good cheer and good pocket by the time the fight broke out.

“Any idiot fool enough to pick a fight with a group o’ strangers such as yersel’s has it comin’ to ‘em anyway,” the gruff, wiry woman had allowed once everything died down again. “And ah’m grateful ye din’ kill anyone.”

Still, discretion was the better part of valour, and Rosslyn had prudently left Wynne in charge of smoothing any leftover ruffled feathers while she bundled a dazed and bleeding Alistair upstairs to one of the rooms they had let for the night. It had taken her longer than it should to hunt through their belongings for medical supplies.

Alistair hissed as she dabbed the knightsfoil compress against his temple.

She tutted. “Hold still.”

He would have a wonderful black eye in the morning, in addition to his already swelling split lip and the cut across the bridge of his nose where one of his attackers had caught him with a brass ring. She cleaned it with a wad of washed linen, lips parted in concentration, with the fire cracking behind them. Their knees were touching.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last.

“Don’t be.”

“The things they were saying about you – _to_ you – I –”

“Hush.” She leaned back and tilted a smile at him. “It was quite romantic, actually – not them,” she added when he frowned. “You. The way you stood up for me.”

“Oh, I…” His hopeful smile turned into a wince. “Really?”

With a soft chuckle, she rinsed the cloth in the basin and took up a pot of salve to spread first on his nose, and then on his bloodied knuckles. He left his hand meekly in hers, his palm warm and rough, his thumb unable to quite keep from brushing across the pulse point on her wrist as she cleaned the wound.

“But it’s not like you couldn’t have knocked them flat on your own.”

And she had. She had unsheathed her sword against the ringleader’s throat and threatened to skewer him. “I know. But… you acted anyway.”

“They just made me so _angry_.”

“I know,” she repeated, and this time raised his knuckles to her lips, careful to mind his injuries. Firelight danced in his eyes as he watched her gaze fall, saw her reach out to trace her fingers along his jaw, and then she was pulling him in so carefully for a proper kiss, soft and slanting, and even with his bruised lip the reassurance in the gesture left his blood singing. The unused adrenaline in his system tingled where their skin touched, her fingers against his pulse and his uninjured hand placed over her knee.

A knock on the door made them pause, but neither of them pulled away.

“Are you in there?” Leliana called. “Wynne told me what happened – are you alright?” She had been scouting through the town with Cuno, and had missed the battle downstairs.

“Just a moment!” Alistair grinned at Rosslyn and stole one last kiss as she returned to the task of bandaging his hand. When she was finished, he pushed up from the bad and went to answer the door while she tidied away the injury kit.

“All fixed,” he announced to Leliana. “You missed the excitement.”

“From what I’ve heard, I’m glad,” their companion replied lightly.

“Yes, well… I should probably turn in. You will lock the door tonight, won’t you?” he directed as Rosslyn, who had stepped up behind him. “In case they come back?”

“What, and deny Morrigan the pleasure of turning into a giant spider and scaring them death?” she teased.

He frowned, caught her gently by the elbow.

“We will,” she reassured. “But you should do the same. I don’t trust them not to come looking for revenge.”

Leliana nodded. “Don’t worry, Alistair, we’ll be fine. Now if I could just squeeze through…”

She passed between the two Wardens, deliberately not paying any attention to where they stood together in the doorway, awkward.

Finally, Alistair straightened and cleared his throat. “I suppose this is good-night then.”

She nodded. “It is.”

“Thank you again, for… well.” He waved his bandaged hand in a vague sort of way.

“Anything for my knight in slightly dented armour.”

“Heyyyy,” he pouted. “It’s supposed to be shining armour, and you know it.”

“We don’t have the coin for that.”

“Oh, hush.”

Still bashful about being affectionate in front of other people, he forced himself to look away from Rosslyn’s mouth, to push away the urge to kiss her, and instead tugged at her fingers. She smiled as he mirrored her gesture of moments before, her breath unsteady where he lingered in the kiss, oak-brown eyes heavy on hers. When he pulled back, he brushed his thumb over the spot and paused to take in the blush spilling across her cheeks.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” she managed, and plucked her hand from his grasp.

He returned her smirk. “Sweet dreams, dear lady.”


	19. The Emperor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> XIX: Prompt: The Emperor (tarot card prompts)
> 
> Or, "You will do as I say." A minor argument between Alistair and Rosslyn on the eve of her departure to face the Archdemon

“ _You will do as I say_.”

The cold snap of Rosslyn’s voice burned in the air between them, as fierce as the ice in her eyes. Everyone stilled – Eamon, the other scrambled advisors from the Landsmeet, and the newly declared king at whom her glare was directed. Alistair tried to swallow back the lance the command sent through his chest, a tone heard so many times in childhood but never from her, not until now, but something of the hurt must have shown in his face because he saw the muscles in her jaw tense as she swallowed and skittered her gaze down to the war table. The sounds of the market below the palace drifted up to them to fill the silence. Out of the corner of his eye, Arl Leonas Bryland glanced to Bann Elara, and to Riordan who had offered his experience with darkspawn, but none of them spoke. Likely, they had never heard anyone, not even a Cousland, speak so roughly to a king.

 _He_ was king. It was something he kept forgetting. It meant they had to do what he told them. He cleared his throat experimentally, and they turned to him, looking for him to set the tone of the response to Rosslyn’s outburst.

“Everyone get out,” he said, throwing his shoulders back. His heart pounded as his new advisors shifted their feet.

“Your Majesty –”

He cut Eamon off. “I said _out_. Everyone except Ross– Warden – Teyrna Cousland.”

As the rest of them filed out, silent, he held her gaze, and didn’t blink when the door closed on their privacy with a bang. They stood on opposite sides of the table, square to each other, with the maps of Ferelden and the southern Wilds stretched between them and held down with paperweights. It was more space apart from her than he ever wanted.

“How could you think I’d let you go off and do this alone?” he asked, more gently than he had expected the words to come.

She lifted her gaze to meet his. “I wouldn’t be alone. Riordan will be there, and… our new recruit.”

A sour taste rose in his mouth, not just because Loghain had survived, but because this plan would have him travelling with Rosslyn, a companion, when he had so very recently tried to have her killed.

“It’s better if you stay in Denerim, we need to keep the Landsmeet stable or everyone will just fall to infighting again.”

“I can’t just sit on my hands while everyone else goes to fight – while _you_ go to fight,” he protested. “I was a Warden first.”

“And you’re now a king,” she replied, offering a wry smirk as she stepped around the table to meet him.

He pouted. “Isn’t that supposed to mean I get to tell everyone else what to do?”

She didn’t answer, only folded herself into his arms with a chuckle and drew her hands around his neck. Her breath sighed against his collar, a mirror of his own fatigue at the way everything had changed in the past few days. He almost wished to be back on the road, hiding out from the rest of their party in their tent, with no worries except the next skirmish and nothing to occupy his mind but the idle patterns her fingers loved to paint across his chest. Now, as king, with proper war meetings and a four-posted feather bed, their struggle against the Blight just seemed surreal.

“This is bigger than just us,” Rosslyn murmured, without moving. “And we’re different. I’m the king’s vassal, the Teyrna of Highever.” She steadied herself with a breath. “It means I’m bound by duty to protect you. And…”

“and?”

She pulled back and stroked a thumb along his jaw, trying for a smile. “As the woman who loves you, I have a vested interest in keeping you safe. Besides, if we can’t defeat the archdemon, you’ll be the last Grey Warden in Ferelden. It’ll be up to you if… if something happens to me.”

He swallowed and caught her fingers. “Nothing is going to happen to you.”

“Well then,” she answered airily, “there’s no need for you to come along, is there?”

She had him. She had had him all along, from that first day when he had led her and the other recruits out of the camp at Ostagar.

“Damn your tongue, woman,” he grumbled, tilting down so he could kiss her. Everything in his mind baulked at the growing dread that hung over them both, the fear that perhaps this taste of her might be his last. It wanted to overwhelm him; it wanted to push her backwards, lift her onto the table, feel her calves hook around his hips and never let him go. But he was the king, and the king had to plan the battle, and there was no time to indulge his dearest wish.

He pulled away, lingering, grinning when she leaned after him, and scooped her hand from where it had fallen to his shoulder, winding their fingers together.

“So you’re staying?” she asked.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “Only if you promise to come back.”

“I… I should go and tell the others the plan – since we’re going to leave in the morning.” With a sigh, she made to step away, but he still had hold of her hand and he didn’t want to let go.

 _She didn't promise._ “Will I see you before you go?”

They might never see each other again.

She tried to smile again, but fear withered it like frost. “Wait up for me.”

“Always.”


	20. A gentle "I love you"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> XX: prompt: A gentle “i love you” whispered after a soft kiss, followed immediately by a stronger kiss
> 
> Alistair and Rosslyn on the morning after their wedding night. Pure fluff, NSFWish

Rain lashed against the windows. Clouds darkened the room, and draughts whispered in from secret cracks in the walls. Huddled against the chill, the young King and Queen of Ferelden lay wrapped up in mussed sheets and in each other, their limbs twined lazily together in the centre of the impossibly large royal bed. Only Alistair was awake, his head propped in the crook of his elbow, a smile soft on his lips as he took in the sight before him. Rosslyn’s dark hair gathered like a mantle across her shoulders, framing slightly parted lips and the serene expression she only ever wore in sleep. Her side rose and fell in a steady rhythm beneath his hand.

How many times had this scene played out? She always hated mornings, whether on the road or in the comfort of a tavern, and had to be pried from sleep like a bur from winter wool. On their travels he had coaxed her from slumber with kisses, or sometimes laid with her and dozed in their shared warmth, or on the nights when it was his turn to watch the camp it had been Cuno sneaking in with a cold, wet nose to pull her from dreams. But this – today – his breath caught in his chest, because there would never be a day like this again.

She stirred. Mumbled and stretched, creased her expression into a smile as she reached out and found him at the blind tips of her fingers. When she sighed and shifted closer, still without opening her eyes, he chuckled and slid his arm lower, across the expanse of her lower back to keep her against him.

“Good morning.”

“Mmhnn.” She twisted in the embrace, blinking at the way the weather battered the glass. “S’only good if you don’t make me go out in it.”

“Oh don’t worry, I was thinking I’d keep you right here,” he answered. His thumb traced idle patterns against her spine. “All day. And maybe tomorrow, if you’d like.”

“Does the king not have important matters to which he must attend?” she asked, the lofty words betrayed by the gentle touch played along the line of his jaw.

He shrugged, as best he could while lying on his side. “Nothing that Teagan can’t handle. Besides, you’re more important than _matters_.”

Her lip pulled between her teeth as he leaned forward. His hand linked with hers and pressed into the mattress by her hip. When he dipped his smile to lavish her neck with attention, the sleep-scratched sigh that fell from her lips settled heat low in his belly.

A laugh shivered in her breath. “You’ve attended me already, if I recall.”

“Not enough,” he replied, with a nip to the corner of her jaw. “Not now I can call you my wife.”

Fingers slipped into his hair, gripped and pulled back. The precipice held in her eyes swallowed him, cracked ice on a winter sea, and when her smile broke through, radiant as sunlight, he swore his heart stopped. “We’re _married_.”

“We’re married,” he agreed, and pressed his forehead against hers.

She drew him down, wrapping arms around his shoulders and legs around his legs, hair falling like the rain outside as she rolled them both, laughing, across the mattress. Her knees braced on either side of his hips when he landed on his back, her palms soft over his heart. The blankets tangled around her so she pushed them away, arching slightly as their warmth was replaced by his, the hands splayed across the flare of her waist. Their gazes locked. Their breath heaved together.

“I never thought I’d have a husband.” Leaning forward, she met him in a chaste, tender kiss, then retreated just far enough to let him feel the whisper of the words against his lips. “I love you.”

For an instant he was left frozen, breathless. His fingers strayed, his heart galloped in his chest, and she was right there, poised above him, so close, all it took was the slightest tilt of his head and she was kissing him again, languid and eager as she moved against him, grinning, and everything he had ever wanted.


End file.
